TWENTY
In the morning, we act as if nothing ever happened.
We jog along the snowy streets, chatting about rugby, Scotland, the best places to eat in Manhattan, everything light and safe. I ache to talk to him about the kiss, but I know it’s better left alone. Besides, what would I say? “Hey, that was some great kissing last night, eh? Wow, I sure was grinding on that king cobra in your pants! Had to go to bed and rub one out—how ’bout you?”
So not gonna happen.
At work I’m confronted with a corpse. The roses Cam sent me last Monday committed suicide over the weekend and are stinking up my cubicle something fierce. There are withered petals and crispy leaves all over the place. I consider dumping them into the kitchen trash, but the can is only slightly bigger than the one under my desk, unable to accommodate the remains of one hundred roses. Also I’d probably trip and fall on my way, thereby spilling disgusting flower-rot water all over the company carpet and eliciting the ire of Portia, who has already made several ominous passes by my desk like a shark toying with the seal it’s planning to eat for dinner.
So I call for help.
Denny arrives with one of those industrial-size garbage cans on a round dolly with wheels. “Yikes!” he says, grinning. “Is that stench the roses, or did you have chili and beans for dinner last night?”
Even when he’s not making fart jokes, he’s still making fart jokes.
“Do you want me to help you?”
“No, kiddo, I got it. Thanks. You want to keep the vase?”
I demur. He makes quick work of the roses, placing the entire arrangement into the trash can and sweeping up the trail of leaves littered over the floor with a hand broom and dustpan.
Then from behind the wall that separates us, I hear Shasta’s voice. “Oh my God. What the . . . Joellen? Is this you?”
I pop my head over the wall and find her at her desk, staring at her computer screen. Her eyes are wide with disbelief, and her expression sends a twinge of panic through my stomach.
“Is this me where?”
“On TMZ.” She looks up at me, blinking. “You’re on TMZ.”
“Me?” I laugh in relief. “I don’t think so.”
She looks at her computer screen, then back up at me, then back at her screen. “Then you’ve got a twin you don’t know about, because this looks exactly like you.”
Frowning, I make my way over to her cubicle, then lean over her shoulder to see what she’s looking at. There on the screen is a close-up shot of me and Cam, nose to nose in the ladies’ dresses department of Saks, gazing at each other.
Neither of us is smiling. His big hand is curled possessively around my upper arm. The dresses on hangers are crushed between us. It’s an intimate and intense moment and looks like we’re either in the middle of a fight . . . or about to make out.
The headline screams, CAMERON MCGREGOR AND MYSTERY WOMAN SIGHTED SHOPPING!
Son of a bitch. The man with the camera sold the picture of Cam and me to TMZ.
Cold with horror, I whisper the first thing that comes to mind. “Does my hair really look like that?”
Shasta squeals. “It is you!”
“Shh!” I peek up over the cubicle wall, but no one else seems to have heard. Crouching back down, I go into full-blown panic mode, complete with sweating palms and heart palpitations. “Oh God. What should I do?”
“Girl!” thunders Shasta, making me wince. “What you should do is tell me what the hell is going on with you and Cameron McGregor!” As I cringe and beg her to keep her voice down, she peppers me with questions, each more invasive than the last.
“How did you meet him? How could you keep it a secret? Are you two a thing? Is he amazing in bed? Oh, cripes, I bet he’s crazy in bed. Is he hung? You have to spill—oh! How long can he last? Is he freaky? I bet he’s super freaky, right?” She wiggles her eyebrows salaciously, and is about to continue her tirade, until a familiar voice interrupts and we both freeze.
“Ladies. Hard at work, are we?”
Shasta and I gulp and make guppy eyes at each other. Slowly, I straighten and turn to face the music, edging over a few inches in an attempt to block Shasta’s computer screen.
“Um. Good morning, Mr. Maddox.”
He glances at Shasta, hiding behind me, then at the screen, which I’m sure is still at least partly visible, then looks back at me. “Good morning.”
He answers smoothly, not a ripple of emotion in his voice, but his eyes are pinwheeling like a crazy person’s, which is how I know I’m totally busted. He already knows about the story.
Shasta offers a weak, “Hi,” then goes back to hiding behind my big butt.
“Joellen. I had a question about your application.” He looks at Shasta meaningfully, and I understand. “Walk with me.”
He turns and leaves without waiting for an answer, because of course he doesn’t have to wait. He’s the beautiful CEO, and I’m the lowly scullery maid who’d be happy to scrub his floors for all eternity for crumbs of his time and attention.
I lurch after him, sweating profusely.
His legs are long, and he’s set a strenuous pace, so it’s hard to keep up. It feels like we’re running from someone. I’m consumed with guilt for no other reason than it seems like I should be as we stride down the corridor at a breakneck clip.
“So you’re in the news.”
His voice is terse, his jaw is set, and his eyes are roving back and forth like he’s watching for incoming missiles. It makes me feel a little better that he’s uncomfortable, too.
“Um . . . yeah. How’d you hear about it?”
“Word gets around fast. Was he the date you said you had?”
“No!” I say, too loudly. “He’s my neighbor!”
Several people look at us from their cubicles as we storm past. He nods at one of them, ignores the rest. “So you said.”
I have no response to that, not understanding if it’s a challenge or what. Does he think I’m lying? “He’s just helping me with a . . . um . . . project. There’s nothing going on between us.”
We turn a corner, almost colliding with someone coming from the other direction, but quickly regain equilibrium and continue our strange walk-run, looking straight ahead.
“So you two made up?”
“Huh?” I am a sparkling fount of intelligence.
“His music. You said he was disturbing you with his music.”
“Oh. Right. That. Yes, we made up.” That sounds too lovey-dovey, like a lovers’ reconciliation, so I quickly amend it. “We called a truce, I mean. And then, uh, he needed help shopping for his, uh, girlfriend. In Scotland. For a Christmas present.”
For the love of God, Joellen, just stick your entire leg in your mouth and get it over with!
Michael adjusts his tie, yanking at it as if it’s strangling him. He’s in a beautifully fitted navy suit, his skin glows with health under the florescent lights, his face is clean shaven, and his hair is perfect. Everything about him is so perfect.
Too perfect?
Disturbed by my betrayal, I stumble on nothing but quickly right myself.
“Meet me after work for a drink.”
Now I almost fall flat on my face.
“Six o’clock. The Liquid Kitty on Fifth.”
He’s oblivious to my sudden catatonia. Not waiting for a response, he makes a right turn abruptly and stalks off down another corridor, leaving me gaping after him.
Is this a date? Did Michael Maddox just ask me on a date?
Before I can faint into a gelatinous pile of limbs, I glimpse Portia headed toward me. My heart sinks. It’s too late to run away, because we’ve made eye contact, so I pretend I’m coming back from some nonexistent meeting and stride forward with a plastered-on smile and a purposeful walk.
She cuts me off just as I’m turning a corner, stopping in front of me so my path is blocked.
She rests her hand on my forearm and digs her fingers in. “Be careful,” she says softly, blue eyes glittering. “Be very careful, Joellen.”
Before I can answer, she’s gone, clicking away on five-inch heels, leaving me wondering why her words felt less like an enemy’s threat and more like a comrade’s warning.
I spend the rest of the day in terror, wearing out my antiperspirant and feeling as if I might keel over and die at any moment. My adrenal glands are hysterically pumping stress hormones into my veins, and it takes an enormous amount of self-control not to let loose the lunatic scream throbbing inside my chest.
By the time I get home, I’m a mess.
“I’ve only got thirty minutes to get ready,” I tell the cat breathlessly, slapping cat food into a dish. “What should I wear? Should I shave my legs?” Mr. Bingley stares at me with a judgy face. “You’re right, that’s just inviting trouble. But wait—I want trouble, don’t I? This is Michael Maddox we’re talking about here. I want all the trouble I can get!” The cat’s eyes narrow to slits. “No, you’re right, play it cool, don’t be overeager, focus on the long run. If I shag him in the bathroom of a bar called the Liquid Kitty the first time we go out, we’ll never be able to tell anyone our first date story.”
It’s a testament to my crazed state of mind that Michael and I are already married with children and giving each other sly glances over dinner as we tell the rehearsed lie we’ve made up when some nosy relative wants to hear about our first date.
I shower, dress, and attempt to blow-dry my hair but end up winding it into a messy bun because my hands are shaking too hard to keep the dryer steady. I apply a coat of the mascara Mrs. Dinwiddle gifted me in her bag of beauty goodies, then consider applying lipstick but decide it will probably only end up all over my front teeth, making me look like I’ve eaten a crayon. I put the tube away and slick on a coat of clear lip gloss instead.
Then I look at myself in the mirror.
My color is high. My eyes are wild. Rebellious little tufts of hair have escaped from the bun and float all around my face like fuzzy clouds. I look like I’ve recently escaped from a mental institution.
“Screw it,” I mutter. “This is how I look. If Michael doesn’t like it, he can suck an egg.”
Cam’s positive body image rhetoric must be having some effect, because a few weeks ago those words would’ve been heresy.
I don’t have enough time to take the subway uptown, so I hail a cab. I do deep-breathing exercises during the ride, which does nothing but make the cabbie look worried. By the time he drops me off in front of the Liquid Kitty, I’m teetering on the edge of hysteria.
This is a moment I’ve dreamed of for a decade. Ten years I’ve been in love with Michael Maddox. Ten years I’ve pined and daydreamed and longed for him to notice me, and now here I am, standing on the sidewalk in front of the bar where he asked me to meet him for a drink.
Well, technically ordered me to meet him, but this isn’t the time to split hairs.
A doorman in hat and tails opens the door for me, nodding solemnly as I pass. I find myself in a dark anteroom lit by a garish red chandelier that throws prisms of scarlet light over the plain black walls. The effect has a startling resemblance to dripping blood.
It seems the Liquid Kitty is, in fact, a portal to hell.
“Good evening,” says a voice to my right. I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Oh. Hello.”
A tall, bald man with linebacker’s shoulders wearing a tuxedo has materialized from behind a black velvet curtain. His gaze flicks over me, quickly assessing. “Are you here to meet a member?”
I looked up the address on my phone but didn’t realize this was a membership club. I thought it was just a regular old bar. Silly me. “Um . . . Michael Maddox?”
He inclines his head. “Very good. Please allow me to take your coat.” He extends his hand, which is the size of a dinner plate.
“Thank you.” I shrug off my coat and hand it over, then hug my handbag to my chest like it’s a life preserver.
Tuxedo Man smiles, amused by my obvious discomfort. He disappears behind the curtain for a moment, then returns without my coat. “This way, miss.”
He motions for me to follow him. I do, pleased that he called me “miss” instead of “ma’am.” It’s the little things.
We pass through another black velvet curtain into a large sitting room decorated by someone with a fond nostalgia for nineteenth-century French bordellos. Red velvet divans are scattered about, fringed with tassels. Elaborately carved gilt mirrors decorate the walls. A fire crackles in a fireplace against one wall, lending the room a warm glow.
I try to ignore the oil painting above the fireplace of the voluptuous nude woman lounging on a sofa with a white dog, but it’s so large it’s impossible. Her sly smile is vaguely disturbing.
We cross the empty sitting room and go through another curtain, and I’m wondering if the interior designer got a bulk discount on velvet drapes.
We pass through a bar and lounge that looks like something right out of an Edith Wharton novel. Everything supple leather, gleaming wood, and polished antiques. It reeks of upper-class privilege. So do the clientele: well-dressed gentlemen and ladies mingling with cocktails in hand, laughing quietly or engrossed in conversations. No one glances at us as we pass, which I’m grateful for, because I’m embarrassed by my outfit.
I’m sure I’m the only one here who shops at The Gap.
Finally we enter a large dining room. The main floor holds dozens of tables and quartets of large leather chairs. On one end of the room is a stage. The other three walls have private booths of tufted carmine leather, set into large niches with curtains on either side held back with gold tassels.
At one of the booths sits Michael, drink in hand, watching the door.
We make eye contact across the room, my heart leaps into my throat, and I’m terrified all over again.
God, if you like me even a little, please don’t let me screw this up.